


Objects and Space

by Stormashke



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 19:52:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15126698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormashke/pseuds/Stormashke
Summary: Random objects bring Miranda on a journey.  A day in her life.





	Objects and Space

**Objects And Space**

 

The Kitchen:

The coffee cup sat on the breakfast island.  Mocking her.  It was ridiculous really, that a simple inanimate object could cause such a set of mixed emotions.  Sipping her coffee, she contemplated how she had gotten into her current state of melancholy.  After all, it was just a coffee cup.  One of a set of six.  Six!

She scoffed to herself...of course it would be one of six.  That ridiculous nickname.  She sat staring at the cobalt..(not royal, not navy and certainly not cerulean)...mug as it sat there, plainly accusing her.  It was her own fault she was in this mess wasn't it?

How many mornings had seen the pair of them here?  Sharing coffee or tea while going through the paper?  She would read the sections of fashion, of society and of course the financial pages.   World events...current events...local events even politics had never been her focus before.  But well, that had changed hadn't it?  She was more well-informed about the Middle East than your average middle-aged American.  That was for certain.

Better than those, were the mornings that saw the pair of them quiet together.  Content to be with each other, with no other words.  A touch of a hand on a knee, a gentle brush of fingertips while passing the carafe back and forth.  Just that sense of being with each other.  Despite appearances to the contrary, words were not always necessary in her home.

Try telling that to her girls.  Both suddenly infatuated by the written word.  She knew she should be grateful for small miracles.

Standing, Miranda brought both her own and the offending mug to the sink.  Typical!  Half an inch of coffee remained in the bottom of the cup!  Was it really so difficult to empty the mug?

Was she reaching for the stars?  Was she expecting too much?

Oddly, the coffee mug had no answer for her.

____

The Living Room:

Laying face down, spine undoubtedly cracking from the mistreatment, was an open book.  Obviously well-loved by the taped cover and dog eared pages.  It was simply left on the arm of the club chair.  The one she'd recently had reupholstered.

For _her_ or course.  Miranda was not fond of that particular shade but the gunmetal gray that had been chosen, at least, did not clash with the blue and white decor.  Even if it did stand out.  Sitting in the chair, she picked up the book to the open page.

Tracing the familiar words, she was careful not to lose the owner's place.  Never before would she have allowed such a level of disorder in her home.  Organization was key to the aesthetic.  Her girls had their own bedrooms and a play room.  She knew that teenagers needed their own space.  She allowed them to rule in their chaos in those rooms only. Clutter everywhere! She had no say in those spaces, as the only rules were no food in the bedrooms and all dishes made their way back to the kitchen as soon as they were done with them. 

Not even for her girls would she risk pests in her home. 

The rest of her home was ordered and neat bordering, she knew, on obsessive.  But it was her sanctuary. The clean lines and structure was like putting on a pair of dark glasses after too long being exposed to the harsh light of day.  Soothing, cooling...calming.  Peace. 

And yet, here was this book.  Completely out of place on a chair that was jarring.  Honestly, by rights, she should simply place the book back in the bookcase. 

But she wouldn't.  Of course she wouldn't.

There were some things, she was learning, at the ripe age of 52 that were more important than structure and order.  And peace could be found in the bent spine of a book, on an armchair that she hated.

____

The Den:

A folder on the coffee table with post-it notes and red pens.  What on earth was this about then?  And if anyone was using post-it notes and red pens, should it not be her?  She lived with them for god's sake!  It wasn't often that either item was less than arm's reach from her.  And yet, she had no idea what this project was.

Opening the folder proved to be a revelation.  Her daughter, her Caroline, was writing!  Her own work!  Here it sat, in a generic manila folder.  Words that were obviously young and new.  But with potential!  And there on a separate sheet, taking great care not to mar the original copies, a carefully written set of edits.

Honest in their tone but gently encouraging.  Showing the  new writer how to become better and how to accept the criticism that was needed.  The edits were good...the writing well done for the age of the author.  The original work kept pristine.  Perhaps to be shown to Miranda at a later date? 

Who knew? She could only hope.

The hand that wielded the red pen over this work was caring, kind, but honest.  Constructive to the point of lecture but so gentle that the young soul would soak it up and flourish under its guidance.  Carefully, she returned the folder to its place. 

This day was getting away from her.

____

The Foyer:

Stacked in an untidy heap, just to the inside of the closet, sat a helmet, a set of knee and elbow  and wrist pads, and gloves. And underneath that the cause for the safety gear.  Four wheels on a long wooden board. 

A skateboard.  Cassidy was quite good with hers.  She could do tricks that would send Miranda's heart into her throat each time.  Yet, she would land  triumphant and safe.  Filled with pride, she would promptly set out to see if she could jump higher or spin faster.  Ollies, kick flips, fakies and shuv-its were now part of Miranda's daily lingo.

But these were not her Cassidy's gear.  No, they belonged to the owner of red pens, the book, the coffee cup.  Trying to learn.  To interact.  To take an interest. To be there.

A part of her Cassidy's world.  To understand what shaped her young daredevil's heart.  Yes, there were band aids needed.  Peroxide and cotton balls were now purchased in bulk.  And Miranda's heart leapt to her throat, for not just Cassidy.  But she could not deny the effort.  The care.

Who does that?  Puts themselves in bodily danger to simply better understand the teen-aged mind of a young girl struggling to be her own person when she had been one of two her whole life?

Deciding to simply leave the disheveled pile where it was (even if she did have better ideas for the knee pads than their current use) she made her way up the stairs.

Her mood was not improving. 

____

The bathroom:

Plastic. Plebian. Ordinary.

The hair clip, obviously discarded quickly, lays in the sink.  All you wanted to do was remove the make-up she insists you don't need.  How can you do that when there is a hairclip in the sink?

Who does that?  Just tosses a hairclip in the sink?  And why on earth is she still using plastic clips?  There are so many more creative ways to style her hair back. You feel the small smile on your face as you reach down, pick up the common piece of plastic and place it with about 50 others she seems to forget she has.

You each have a section of the bathroom.  Hers is once again ordered chaos.  Or so she tells you.  And you aren't allowed to complain about how the elastic ties overflow the small box she keeps them in. Or how her disposable razors take up space when you would happily pay for electrolysis for her.

 You've never made room before like this.  Not for Greg or Stephen or even Jo-Anne.  Granted with Jo, you were 18 and didn't make room for anyone but you had _wanted_ to try for her.  But no, if either of your husband's had left a razor laying around that might have been grounds for divorce...or at least a night or two in the guestroom.

For her though, you smile indulgently, and simply make more room.

___

The Bedroom:

The inhaler lays on the bedside table.  Accusing you.  How could she have left it?  Why didn't you make certain she had it with her?  What if she needs it?  The slightly sick, panicked feeling causes you to feel like maybe _you_ need the inhaler.

The first time she needed it, you were at a loss.  The gasping and wheezing is a sound you still hear in your nightmares.  But thankfully, she was clear-headed enough to use the life saving little device.  Since that day you have one in your bag and you've made certain she has one in her laptop bag as well as on her person. 

This one, laying on the bedside table, reminding you, yet again, that perhaps you aren't as caring or loving as you should be, could be either of the emergency inhalers.  But perhaps it's an extra?  She does have her laptop bag after all. 

And she is far more calm about those little attacks than you ever could be.  She's an adult, responsible for herself thank you very much.  As she continues to remind you and yet you still feel that level of hyper vigilance.   You love her.  You love your life, so entwined with hers.  You love how she loves your girls. You love Andrea Sachs.

 So you will continue to fill the prescription for multiple inhalers.

You will continue to wash out coffee mugs with coffee stuck in the bottom.

You will continue to compromise your color schemes and prioritize not your own comfort but for your comfort as a family.

You will continue to run a mini-pharmacy out of the downstairs bathroom for your daredevils.

You will continue to allow someone else to be your daughters first editor.

You will continue to make room...because in love...you have to make room.

It grows you see.

____

You feel the bed shift.  The duvet being drawn back and a weight settling heavily beside you.  The world right's itself as her arms wrap around you.  Her hair a familiar tickle against your back, shoulders and neck as she settles more firmly around you.

She apologizes in a murmur for waking you.  You smile and pull her arm more securely around you.  She kisses your ear, whispering to ask what you did today. 

Sleepily you answer her the only way you can.

"I loved you today."

**Author's Note:**

> For AFey who never lets me get away with anything. For my Andy who continues to tell me I can do anything. For JEHC who knows when to encourage gently and knows when to get out the axe.


End file.
